


Thick as Thieves

by DeliaJohnson (thebright1)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Angst, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-01-22
Updated: 2007-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23704789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/DeliaJohnson
Summary: So this is the end. An end to London, to Baker Street, to Watson. He will think me dead; they all will.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> These were originally posted to my LiveJournal way back in 2007 as a series of connected drabbles. There's never enough ACD!Holmes love, so I'm moving it here. Slight crossover with the 1984 Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes. I never finished it, but maybe I'll come back to it someday-- I did have a plan, and I remember most of it.

He asks to come along, and I have never been accompanied before. Indeed, no one has ever wanted to accompany me.  
  
He links his arm through my own in a chummy manner, and smiles at me beneath his moustache. I feel a stirring in the pit of my stomach. Something is wrong.  
  
He says things like 'dear chap' and 'friend'. By the time he says these things, I know I want more than his friendship. I give thanks that we no longer share rooms and he is happily married.  
  
He slips during the chase, and I halt for a half-step. I want to see if he's all right. Our criminal blends into the night while I look over my shoulder.  
  
What has cost me my sanity now threatens my livelihood. My reputation. My life. It has to end. I have to end it. But how?  
  



	2. Bang or Whimper

Watson does not know what will happen tomorrow. I am not sure myself, and my uncertainty upon this point is more proof to myself that because of him, because of _this thing_ , I am completely undone.  
  
The professor will try to kill me. I might let him.  
  
That is not to say he will get away. He is not a man of strength, but his love of power will force him to meet me face to face. He wants the honor and respect Sherlock Holmes's Killer will receive from the underworld at large. To let a hired man do it would be to give away the glory of the thing. He intends to be a King among criminals. Kings need glory.  
  
Moriarty will die tomorrow, because I am the stronger, smarter one. But I could follow him easily into the abyss. I have seen my observational skills wane in the light of this affection I feel. There are times that I am as useless as Lestrade. I cannot stand the thought of fizzling out, my reputation in shambles as more and more criminals slip through my fingers because of these blasted useless emotions. They drive me to distraction, leave me unable to focus on the things which matter.  
  
It will be a glorious and dramatic end to my career, and I am not so cut off that I do not realize my propensity for the same vices my nemesis falls prey to. Watson may not observe a shoeprint or a bit of blonde hair in a brunette household, but he can easily deduce emotions from an off-hand remark or a cocky smile. I have betrayed myself to him a thousand times, I'm sure, and he has been gracious enough not to comment.  
  
So this is the end. An end to London, to Baker Street, _to Watson_. He will think me dead; they all will. My career is in shambles and I am a criminal in thought if not in actions. There seems very little point in continuing a slow decline into folly and depravity.  
  
Death must be more peaceful than this living hell.


	3. Changed Minds, Changed Hearts

He put his arm in my own as we walked the path towards the falls. My resolve wavers, to feel his body so near my own. His physical being clouds out all other observations, and I stumble over a rock in the path. He reaches out and grabs me before I fall, and it's hell, it's utter, miserable, wretched hell, because I never stumble, and I pride myself on my powers of observation. He fills my whole world when he is close, looming so large I can't see the bloody ground beneath my feet.  
  
His arms are around me and I'm suffocating with his presence. Away. I must get away, it is the only solution to this problem.  
  
I shrug out of his grasp and clear my throat.  
  
"Are you all right, Holmes?' he asks.  
  
I swallow hard. Damn his concern. Damn his brown eyes and his hands and his being. Damn him. Damn me. "Yes," I spit out. "Just lost my footing a bit."  
  
"We can go back, if you are not feeling well," he offers. He puts a hand on my shoulder and his touch is like fire and ice and I can't stand to be near it. "I know you didn't sleep well or heavy, last night."  
  
I take a step away from him, so his hand falls from my body. Sweet relief, to be able to think. "And how did you make that observation, may I inquire? You were sound asleep, I thought." Divert his attention. Keep him talking. Keep him at arm's length.  
  
"Holmes, you forget, I have been sharing a bed with someone regularly for several years now. I do not have to be fully awake to be aware of the presence or absence of someone next to me."  
  
I have to pause to consider if he is mocking me or not. Surely he can see what torment it would be for me to have to sleep next to him, knowing my inverted nature, can't he?  
  
But his tone is sincere. And his eyes are warm. And he speaks again. "My friend, what troubles you? It is more than Professor Moriarty and his gang."  
  
He does not know. Good Lord, he does not know what I am, what I feel. I am an utter fool. "Nothing but, friend," I choke out.  
  
I thought he had rejected the notion; instead, it had never even crossed his mind. I can't tell which is worse.  
  
But if he does not know. . . curse my idle mind, its flights of ridiculous fancy. It will be life, then. It will be this hell upon Earth, because it is a hell with still a chance of Heaven. I will wait for him, then. I will bide my time, and if there is ever a chance of our happiness, I will come straight to him, my confession in hand, and my proposal in the other. If I have to wait a thousand years, I will.  
  
And if he should die a happily married man, then I will die.  
  
But not before him.


	4. Know No Future, Damn the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Switch to Watson

Mary died in agony three months ago, our stillborn babe between her bloodied legs.  
  
I thought I would have enjoyed being a father. I have seen so many louses achieve this goal without ever being worthy, and I thought that I would not be one of them. Whether boy or girl, I had resolved to be the best father I could be. I had looked forward to it with an anticipation that kept me up at night, vivid fantasies and daydreams of my future offspring chattering through my mind. I thought of first words and schooling and teaching him compassion for others. I thought of reading my adventures with Holmes to her.  
  
I do not know when this fancy took me, but it was some time after I lost my dear friend. Mary said I was near obsessed with the idea of children, and giggled when I joshed with her about the manner in which one goes about getting oneself such a creature.  
  
This child was . . . everything. And it was stillborn. And Mary is dead. And there will be no others.  
  
She alone understood my melancholy after Holmes died. She alone understood my desire for new life, new beginnings. We tried faithfully for over two years. She promised to name our son after him, knowing how highly I had regarded the man, how much she had come to love him herself. Knowing how much we both owed him.  
  
Mary. . .  
  
Friends and relations have begun to push others upon me, as if another body, another woman, was all that is needed to push this sorrow from my heart, this triple tragedy that I could never have foreseen. In the space of as many years, to lose my wife, my child, my most intimate friend.  
  
How I wish for Mary's soothing voice; for Holmes's easy logic; for the cry of my child.  
  
It is a terrible thing, to not be needed anymore, and to have no one whom you can turn to in your hour of need.  
  
I need Mary to smile and say that she understands. I need Holmes to laugh at me and tell me my emotions are ridiculous. With any of these, I could do.  
  
Instead, I have the polite smiles of widows who have, along with myself, casually been invited to a weekend in the country with friends. I have their best wishes after my grave misfortune. I have their sympathies in losing Sherlock Holmes, whom they all claim to feel they know from my literary pursuits.  
  
I think it is this last platitude which damns me the most. Mary knew Holmes. She had met him; he had solved her case. He had stood for us at our wedding; she had let him into our house to change disguises at all hours of the day or night. She had dined with us upon his birthday, even made a present. He had sent her flowers to apologize for taking me away for weeks at a time.  
  
Mary shared my grief at his demise. These women, they know nothing of him. They cannot understand the burden of loss that I carry, not as my wife could. They cannot laugh with me about the way he noticed every detail of those around him, but could not recognize when his cravat was askew without some discreet nudging. They cannot truly mourn with me at what a loss his death is to the world.  
  
I cannot find love with someone who did not love him with me.  
  
And so I shall never love again.


	5. The Rush

This train does not run fast enough for me.  
  
I stand and sit again, and shift in the small cramped box racing towards London.  
  
The telegram had been waiting for me for nearly three weeks when I returned from the California desert. The telegraph operator made no secret of his interest in the news of other people and said, as he handed me the note, that I would probably be able to catch the 8:15 headed east for New Orleans that evening.  
  
The telegram read:  
  
M.W. dead STOP  
London needs you STOP  
  
Mycroft might have sent me any number of telegrams on the needs of London. He knew that only my needs would bring me back.  
  
The journey, by land, and then by sea, took two months, and bad storms drove us south to the French coast.  
  
I have not slept for a fortnight, and Moran is sure to make an attempt upon my life in the next few hours, for I have no doubt he thinks I am returning over this business about Adair. My mind races from the stimulation, and I have not felt like this since I took my final solution of cocaine, six months ago now. A case, a criminal, London, Baker Street, Watson. . .  
  
How I missed this life I am returning to.  
  
The excitement is nearly enough to make me forget the vow I made, on that path to Reichenbach.  
  
Nearly.


	6. The Way We Are, The Way We'll Go

We are ensconced in my sitting room at 221B. Our sitting room. Or it was, once. Mrs. Hudson has left us with a fine bottle of brandy and I am lighting my pipe, as I try to figure out how to face my cowardice.  
  
It had all been planned out in my mind so perfectly that when it derailed, I was at a loss.  
  
I would take off my costume.  
  
He would turn and see me.  
  
I would hold my arms out, like I have seen so many lovers do when they meet. Like I have never done with anyone. I would not move.  
  
His next move would tell me everything I needed to know. If he closed the distance, and reciprocated the offered affection, I could be sure that he understood. That there was some chance of this between us. If he stood still, or moved away, then I would know that he did not feel the same as I, that there was no chance of such emotion in him.  
  
It was a brilliant scheme. It required no confession, no inadequate words of emotion. It would be him and me, and I would know in an instant whether it was to be one way or the other.  
  
But when I held my arms out, he looked at me with wonder for a moment, just a moment, and then he collapsed-- fainted! If I hadn't been reaching out for him already, he would have fallen to the floor.  
  
I had planned for all eventualities but that one. I should have known better than to try to predict his actions. Look how terribly I had misinterpreted his thoughts before! Thinking my affection was clear, obvious-- a danger to me, even, when all the time he had been completely oblivious.  
  
The moment was lost. My confession ruined. The future just as dark and unclear as it had been when I left.  
  
There had been no time in the ensuing hours to talk, and I have no knowledge of what words to use in any case. He is not a lady to be swooned with comments on his looks, flowers, and lush language such as I have heard used upon the fairer sex. I cannot propose marriage, for no society would condone such a thing. He may be horrified by the prospect; I cannot tell, as our conversations never went in that direction, in all our years of being flatmates and friends.  
  
I brood as I smoke, staring into the flames of the fireplace, my back to him.  
  
"Holmes?" he says, behind me.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
He clears his throat, and I hear a shuffling as he stands, and steps close to the fire. "May I do something completely inappropriate?"  
  
I smile, turning towards him. "And what would that be, my friend?"  
  
He reaches out and wraps his arms around me, hugging me fiercely. I stand stock still for a moment, surprised, shocked, and then put my arms out tentatively to return the embrace. This is not how I had ever imagined our embrace. This is not how I have seen men and women each other, gently, softly. His arms are hard and brutal, clutching at me. His head is buried at my shoulder, and I realize I am still holding my pipe and do not know what to do with it. His hands are pressed fully against my back, our chests and hips flush. I'm awkward and my legs suddenly seem to tangle with his, and I don't remember how to stand. I hold the pipe out away from him, and my free hand rubs his back gently.  
  
Oh, what heaven, his body pressed against mine. I understand now why one would commit so many horrors in the name of this sweet feeling. I feel giddy, lightheaded, ecstatic. In this instant, I know that there is so much incomparable beauty in the world, and I am glad to be part of it, to be here, to be . . . loved. And to love.  
  
My joy sweeps over me and I laugh a little with it. Some dark, primal instinct takes over, moves my hand to slide up to his shoulder, to touch the back of his neck, to slip my fingers through the hair at his nape, above his collar. He pulls back a little, and looks up at me.  
  
In that moment, I lean down and press my mouth to his. It is unwieldy, I'm sure, because my nose is too long, and his moustache is prickly, and I have never tried this before. He pulls back just slightly, and I turn my head, and then he opens his mouth against mine. His tongue pushes at my lips, and then he licks the inside of my mouth. His breath floods into me, and I feel as though I am filled with him. We are not two individuals, but an entirely new entity; a strange new species born right here, in the heart of London, in the sitting room on Baker Street.  
  
I pull him closer and suddenly he yelps and pushes away from me, and I realize I had accidentally pressed my still burning pipe to his back. Startled, I drop the pipe, and sparks flare up on the rug. I drop to my knees, grabbing the wrong end of the object and feeling the hot sting run down my fingers before I recognize my error.  
  
The excitement is over in moments, and I place the pipe on the mantle above the fireplace and grimace at the singed carpet. Mrs. Hudson will undoubtedly notice. And complain.  
  
Watson has not moved throughout this entire affair. He stands frozen, staring at the carpet, a far off look in his eyes. I hope he is not badly burned.  
  
"Watson, I'm sorry." I take a step forward and offer a hand out. He comes to life vividly, taking three steps back, like I'm the villain from some tawdry melodrama. How could I have misread him? Again?  
  
This wretched infatuation! It leaves me no peace, no logic. "Watson." I put my hand down, but take another step forward. If I cannot salvage his affection, at least his friendship . . .  
  
He puts his hands up, as if to ward me off, and takes another few steps back. He is nearly at the door to the hallway. "Holmes, I-" He stops, catching my eyes a moment. I don't know what I can deduce there. No doubt my assumptions would be false. "I must go."  
  
He grabs his coat and slips out of the door. I hear his hurried footsteps on the stairs, and then the slam of the door.  
  
I am home. I am lost.


End file.
